The Warmth the Stars Keep for Themselves

It’s St. Patrick’s Day, so I’m buying beer

in the rain. And all the cigarette butts

float to the surface on both sides

of the sidewalk I’m on like

old bones brought up

from all the rain

coming down

deep into

the grass

 

On my mind

just as heavy:

trans-dimensional

black holes, life on a

loop, dark death and a knife

in my stomach—Oh, and the light

the stars make, and the stories they tell,

and the warmth they maybe keep for themselves.

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